Washed
by Drusilla2
Summary: "Love like this was for fairytales, for romance novels, for children. This was the real world, and love didn't exist." Life takes an unexpected turn for Buffy years after The Gift, and she finds herself having to choose between her head and her heart.


TITLE: Washed  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: S/B, mentions B/R  
  
SPOILERS: The Gift  
  
SUMMARY: Life takes an unexpected turn for Buffy after "The Gift", and she founds herself  
having to choose between her head and her heart.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
  
WASHED  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
She pressed her fingers to the cold glass, so that when she withdrew them, silvery-gray   
marks were left upon the picture window. The rain beat against the house ruggedly, in  
uneven torrents: a crash here, a crash there, and then--   
  
nothing.  
  
And from the corner, a sound. A small, scared whimper. Perhaps it was Slayers' senses, but  
it seemed exceptionally loud, especially hopeless. She turned to face it, and smiled.  
  
It was not a joyful smile: those were hard come by of late-- but a sorrowful, longing smile.  
A smile that was not completely there-- but genuine, and loving, all the same. The   
difference was too subtle, too slight, for human eyes, atleast.  
  
She sighed, and went to pick up the little thing. It was amazing, that such a sweet,  
pink-nosed, rosy-cheeked doll could affect her life so. Could weigh down any dreams of   
flying. Could rip her entire world apart.  
  
It was funny: it was the one thing she loved.  
  
"Honey," Came a hard, masculine voice. She whirled around, her heart beating faster,   
faster...  
  
His face appeared from the shadows. It was tired, just like hers: his visage held the same  
type of expression: they had both given up, long ago.  
  
"It's late." It was a flat tone, one he used when he was upset, yet didn't like to admit  
it.   
  
"I know." She didn't care. "Little Rachel doesn't want to sleep."   
  
He sighed. "You fuss over her too much. Let her be. She'll fall to sleep when she feels  
like it."  
  
Her eyes grew hard, angry. "You'd have me abandon her then? She doesn't like the rain.   
She needs someone to be with her--"  
  
But he was gone.  
  
She held back a broken-hearted sob that was caught in her throat, and went back to the   
huddled figure. "Shh..." She whispered, wiping away the baby's tears while her own were  
trekking across her cheek.  
  
  
"Hush little baby,   
Don't say a word.  
  
Mamma's gonna buy you a mocking bird.  
  
And if that mocking bird don't sin,  
Mamma's gonna buy you a diamond ring."  
  
  
The little girl gurgled, and slept.  
  
She walked slowly to the door, in a dream-like trance, and found herself reaching for the  
door. Her hands clutched the worn brass handle and twisted a little, until it the door  
came open with a startled squeak.  
  
She stepped out, and closed the door behind her gently, lest he hear her; lest he follow.  
  
Gone were her slaying days-- she had given all those things up years ago. She knew that   
there was no other, that somewhere in Sunnydale or the world there were creatures of   
darkness that schemed and whispered and dreamed of apocalypse.  
  
She didn't care.  
  
Death had taught her many things, that one among them. Her friends had been eager to have  
her back, and not so eager when they discovered the ways she'd changed. At first it was a  
matter of habit: check in with Giles, gab on the phone with Willow, hang with Xander.  
Mouth-off with Spike and argue with Dawn until the words had no logic and language held no   
meaning.  
  
They didn't see, did they? Or perhaps they did, but were not willing to succumb to it. She  
held a dark side, naturally, a side they never wanted find out about. A side where she   
didn't care. A side that *liked* killing. *Liked* death. *Liked* the rush of sex and  
violence.  
  
She passed the cemetery and her old house, when she saw him.   
  
He looked the same as he did in bygone years-- His blonde hair bleached into an unnatural  
hue and his cheekbones still carefully sculpted and well defined. He wore a red silk shirt,  
and his leather duster was still there, as always.  
  
Life was not fair: this was something she knew well. She looked down at her own clothes,  
her own body. The cotton pieces hung from her thin frame awkwardly: a baby-blue sweatshirt  
and black track pants, both two sizes too large.  
  
Her hair was matted to her head in the rain. This was a good thing-- it was often unruly  
and she had not the time to tend to her vanity now, with a full-time job and a child to care  
for. She didn't regret it, of course. There was no point in looking back at all the things  
she'd done wrong: that's what creates lunatics, and serial killers.  
  
And so she concluded that the cards had been dealt, and that her life was meant to be like  
this.  
  
He turned to look at her, and she felt her heart explode.  
  
It was still Spike: always Spike. His eyes still held that sparkle she'd always..   
appreciated, to say the least. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself unable.  
  
"Buffy." He breathed.  
  
She nodded, swallowing hard. The rainwater washed away her tears. She was glad: maybe   
then, he wouldn't see them, wouldn't know.  
  
"Haven't seen you in a while." He said, almost casually. Even so, she could tell. She   
could sense the pain that his voice worked so hard to mask.  
  
She shook her head, and suddenly his lips were on hers, crushing her, suffocating her.  
  
She struggled at first, and then kissed him back, and then pulled away again, panting.  
  
He nodded, and turned to walk away, his eyes lonely, sad, defeated. Was it she who caused  
this pain? She called out for him, and he paused, his body still, the air silent.  
  
The rain beat against their faces.  
  
"Why do you do this?" He asked, softly.   
  
She didn't know. This was her game-- a sort of security blanket. Take what you want and   
get out of there; that was her motto. She didn't take well to evolution, adaptation.  
"I was lonely."  
  
He looked down, a knowing look spreading across his features. "So you turned to me. And   
then when you're finished, you throw me away. Is that what I am? Is that all I am, to   
you?"  
  
She gazed into his depths, searching. "I don't know."  
  
He grew angry. "Damnit, Buffy! How can you not know? Either you want me or you don't."  
His expression grew dangerous as he swung his fist into the air, taking his aggression out  
onto something invisible.  
  
"It's not that simple." Her voice was cold, unfeeling. She thrust her hands deeply into  
her pockets.  
  
"It's *very* simple." He snarled. "I. Love. You. I don't care if you don't want to hear  
it. Don't spare my feelings. Love is simple. You *know* if you're in love."  
  
She didn't speak, or move.  
  
"Tell me, are you happy with your commando boy? With your *husband*?" He said the last  
word with such contempt and hatred that she was almost frightened.  
  
"I love Riley." She said these words slowly, carefully, pronouncing each syllable with  
precision so that there could be no mistake.   
  
He laughed. "Is that what it is, Slayer? Love? A 9-5 job, a kid, a husband? Is that   
the future you've always dreamed of?" He spat.  
  
"I'm sorry you feel that way about my lifestyle." She trembled, but she couldn't let it   
show. "Riley gives me the normalcy that I need."  
  
"But that's all he does, isn't it? He's normal and dependable. But do you really love him?  
Would your heart break if you lost him?"  
  
She broke. "I trust him. I respect him. It's enough."   
  
She turned away but he was on her in an instant. He pressed her against the wall, his demon  
surfacing, his fangs dangerously close to her throat. "You see, love. It's never enough.  
Not for a Slayer."  
  
"I'm not a Slayer. Not anymore. You can take me here, Spike. Right now. Kill me and have  
it done with." Her voice was clear. Splashes of tears blended with the rain until there  
was no difference; no line between them.  
  
He let go of her, a little. "You deserve more, Buffy. You deserve love." He said this   
softly, his hand carressing her cheek.  
  
She wanted to believe him, to make him take her with him. But love like this was for   
fairytales, for romance novels, for children.  
  
This was the real world, and love didn't exist.  
  
He took her mouth into his, and nothing mattered anymore: none of her rules, her beliefs;  
  
Just him.  
  
She whimpered as she felt his rising heat pressing up against her own and sighed in bliss.  
His hands moved up her shirt, his cool fingers exploring the darkness beneath. His left   
cheek brushed against hers and she felt his nonexistent breath on the lobe of her ear.  
  
The brick wall behind her scraped against her hair and her flesh, but it was only physical  
pain: nothing, compared to this.  
  
"Tell me," He said, in a deadly calm tone, "Do you really want to go back? To the idiot  
man you call your husband?"  
  
"No," She gasped, and his mouth found a niche in her neck. Her breath was torn from her  
as she fought for control, for dignity. Her fingers crawled beneath his jacket, and five  
digits grasped something hard, something sharp.  
  
"Buffy," He choked, and then she was alone.  
  
"No," She whispered softly, shaking her head at the empty air that hung in front of her.  
"But I have to." She tilted her head upwards and let the rain wash away the night's   
residue.  
  
She turned away, hugging herself to ward off the cold, and then turned back, once again.  
  
"I love you," She said, but the wind carried away her voice, and even then it sounded   
wrong, and wicked, and immoral.  
  
And so she clung to herself as she sank to the ground against the brick and wept, as she   
watched her love's ashes being washed away by rain.  
  
  
* * *  
  
(end)  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
  
REVIEW! I demand reviews!!  
  
  
  



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